Journey of The Tailor
by FlossSwallower
Summary: Caesar's Legion has been destroyed, but NCR doesn't rule. A new organization, the Fourth Reich, has taken it's place, situated in Germany. One man can stop it, though, one man can make the final decision, the first decision, one man can control Germany's fate. His name is the Tailor.


The cold, hard sun beat down on the desert wasteland that used to be Berlin. The town consisted of dozens upon dozens of small cottages, destroyed, large chunks of concrete and wooden wall strewed all over the streets, the walls still up full of bullet holes and marks of grenades and laser shots. At the front of the city was a large, rectangular, steel establishment, long and wide, a vault door at the front of it. The establishment continued to go down into the ground and held many, many cots and beds and cafeterias, etc, etc. It was where the soldiers lived. Inside the steel establishment, it was steaming, heat bouncing off all the walls and everyone inside sweat and stunk of it. It was still better than out there in the wasteland, though, which is why so many people signed up to be soldiers. One such soldier patrolled the streets of Berlin. He wore a gas-mask, a green, metal helmet covering the top of his head, the kind the American's wore back a lengthy time before the nukes hit, hell, it was even considered a lengthy time ago back when the nukes hit, it was back in the second world war. He looked out at the world through the two green glass holes in his gas-mask, wearing a light brown trench coat, except one thing was different about it. A red band had been painted onto his right arm, wrapping around the arm of the trenchcoat, a white circle in the middle of it, with a swastika inside of the white circle. Underneath this trenchcoat was heavy Kevlar, along with other armor. He wore large, Army trekking boots, a pair of cargo pants covering his legs. This was the average uniform of the Fourth Reich, as the organization called itself. It controlled Berlin and many other parts of Germany. The rest was controlled by the NCR. Much of the Fourth Reich were surviving members of Caesar's Legion, a group rumored to be quite powerful in its day, and almost powerful enough to overthrow the NCR. The NCR had eventually beaten it, though, and it had disbanded, some anonymous traveler having invaded Caesar's chief camp with two companions and killing Caesar and all of the soldiers in the camp. After this, with no leader, Caesar's Legion began to crumble, NCR quickly finishing them. The name of the traveler is unknown, but it's believed that he didn't work for the NCR and was merely an assassin for personal reasons. He was never interviewed, though, and hasn't been seen since. Some people believe he went to Washington D.C, as quite a few rumors of exciting things had arose there.

The Fourth Reich soldier continued to truck down the streets, an Uzi in his hand, sweating heavily under all his armor. He had joined, also, to be out of the wasteland, but he hadn't realized how much these guys got around, so he ended up spending more time than he realized in the wasteland. Eventually, he began to listen to their beliefs, though. They sounded right. What the Fourth Reich wanted was to conquer Germany and destroy the NCR, which made them just seem like terrorists, but that wasn't all they wanted. The Fourth Reich believed they had the technology to cure the wasteland, to get rid of it all, to bring it back to Pre-War standards, they just thought that the NCR stood in their way. The NCR believed the Fourth Reich was just another Caesar's Legion, another terrorist group, after seeing all the hundreds of people who had been killed by the Fourth Reich. The Fourth Reich continued to say that it was all for a greater cause, that they needed test subjects, and when a town was full that they needed to inhabit, they wouldn't hesitate to clear it, but it was still all for the greater good, and that those people were martyrs, brave men who had helped ever so much in the journey to a cure for the wasteland. The Fourth Reich was led by a man who took the name of Adolf. That was his only name. Rumor had it that that wasn't his real name, that the Fourth Reich was actually inspired by a Pre-War organization and Adolf was a fanatic. Rumors even say that that's why the Fourth Reich's main base was in Berlin, because the group that the Fourth Reich was inspired by had once inhabited Berlin. Just went to show that even before the Great War, there was still war.

Adolf was a small, short man. His hair was often slick and greasy, pressed down against his scalp and combed to the side. He had a thin face, and wore a bullet-torn Pre-War outfit that looked similar to the outfit the Fourth Reich soldiers wore, just a little different. He was an opportunist and didn't hesitate to kill a man, or if he was angry enough, slaughter a man. Several bodies were spread about the city of Berlin because of Adolf's anger, along with the lack of compassion of the Fourth Reich soldiers.

The Fourth Reich soldier stopped in his tracks. To his side, leaning against a wall, looking back at him, was a man. Blood seeped out of what looked like several bullet wounds in his stomach, but he stared back at the man with wide open eyes. The soldier turned on him and raised his Uzi, aiming it straight at the man, wrapping his gloved finger around the trigger. He shouted something, although the shot man on the ground didn't understand the language the man was speaking in. The soldier shouted a few more words, then was silent, looking at the man on the ground. He fired, bullets spraying out of the Uzi and right at the man. The shot man lunged up, kicking off the ground and tackling the Fourth Reich soldier. The soldier yelled something again in the foreign language as the shot man wrestled with him, balling his hand up into a fist and repeatedly punching the man in the cheek, despite the gas-mask. The gun continued to fire off a few shots towards the sky as the men struggled and wrestled, the shot man having the upper hand. For a man who seemed to have just been shot several times in the stomach, he seemed to have remarkable strength. He uppercutted the soldier and wrapped his hand around the soldier's face, pulling the soldier's head back and smashing it against the concrete of the road multiple times. The soldier finally fell unconscious, and the shot man pulled the Uzi out of his hand. He whacked the soldier across the head, making sure the Fourth Reich member was unconscious, then flipped him over and started undressing him, taking his jacket, Kevlar vest, and gas-mask that now had slightly cracked lens's. He put the Kevlar on himself and the gas-mask, then remembered the helmet and put that on too. He then kneeled down, pulling a knife out of his pocket, and started to cut the arms off of the trench-coat, high enough to get rid of the Fourth Reich symbol, then put it on. It wasn't exactly fashionable, but at least now the NCR wouldn't shoot him at first sight for mistaking him for a Fourth Reich member.

The shot man stood up, sticking the Uzi in his jeans, the handle still sticking out so he could easily pull it out at any time.

The man's name was the Tailor.

-Break-

There was nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Apollo continued to stare up at the burnt sky, his mouth hanging open, his eyes slightly glazed. There was nothing. He lay on the concrete ground of the alleyway, staring up at the sky. Nothing. What was he to do? He would lay here forever. He was Apollo, he was Apollo, he was Apollo, but what was he to do? There was so much to think, so much to happen in his brain, but here he was, lying in a dirty alleyway in a sweaty T-shirt and pants, sweating, sweating, sweating, but he was Apollo, he was, he really was, no one else could be Apollo but him, he was Apollo, the one and only Apollo, the Apollo, but what, what, what, what, what, what, what, what, what, what, what was he supposed to do? Nothing, nothing, nothing. He was Apollo and he was lying in a dirty alleyway in a dirty T-shirt with dirty pants and that's all he was, a dirty man, nothing else but a dirty Apollo, nothing but a dirty Apollo, he was just a dirty Apollo, all he was was a dirty Apollo and all he ever would be would be a dirty Apollo, a dirty Apollo, a dirty Apollo, all he could ever be was a dirty Apollo, but he was Apollo, the Apollo, Apollo and Apollo only, oh, Apollo, Apollo, Apollo, the Apollo of Apollo's, for he was Apollo and Apollo only.

A figure came into Apollo's view, his feet making crunching noises against the ground. It was a Fourth Reich soldier, but oh, where was his symbol? Where? Where? He was dirty, too, a dirty Fourth Reich soldier, a dirty Fourth Reich soldier, a dirty one, a dirty one. He had no symbolized arms, he had only skin arms, just skin there, no brown arms, nothing, just dark, tanned, white skin, that's all he was, a diiiirttttyyyyyy Fourth Reich soldier, dirty indeed, and he needed to be cleansed.

"What was it?"

Apollo's eyes darted up to his face. A Fourth Reich face, with green eyes, and a long, black face with tubes and machinery, a Fourth Reich face, a Fourth Reich face.

"Was it Med-X? Or jet? Mentats? You're a jethead, aren't you?"

Apollo's eyes darted away, his head turning and lying on its side, how dare the Fourth Reich soldier, how dare he indeed, when he was no Fourth Reich soldier, he was dirty, dirty like Apollo, he was a very dirty man, dirty, dirty, DIRTY.

"Come on, jethead."

The dirty Fourth Reich soldier crouched down and grabbed Apollo's arm, pulling him up.

"You don't look like one of the violent ones, at least."

The dirty Fourth Reich soldier and the dirty Apollo began to walk off.


End file.
